Perpetual Underestimation
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: Harry's twin Lil runs away before her letter arrives: she stumbles upon the Knight Bus and RL. Refusing to return to the Dursleys', Prof D. arranges for them to remain with the Weasleys until 1 Sept. HP the way a twin would affect the story! Yr 1-5ish.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N.**: I was inspired by the picture of Gale Hawthorn and Katniss Everdeen sitting in the woods, sharing a little loaf of bread. Please review.

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**Perpetual Underestimation**

_01_

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Highly unusual in many ways, Lil knew she was, but to look at she was nothing short of a Victorian street-urchin: small for her age, and very skinny, her knees were knobbly, her elbows sharp, and she had a vast quantity of rich brunette hair touched with vivid copper and gold that Aunt Petunia's kitchen-scissors seemed unable to trim shorter than her waist: at one point, she had shorn Lil's entire head bare, just as she had done with her twin-brother Harry's—leaving only a lock of hair over Harry's forehead to "hide that hideous scar"—but they had both woken the next morning, after spending a restless night anticipating a brutal resurgence of bullying at school, to find that their hair had grown back overnight.

Odd.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Whenever Uncle Vernon started shouting at Harry, Lil would get so angry that things—the television; the glass in photograph frames; Aunt Petunia's best cut-crystal sherry-glasses; the figurines on the mantelpiece—would shatter.

And, when they were eight, two strange men in long robes had come to the house after Lillian had blown up their piggish, brutal bully of a cousin Dudley like an oversize balloon: he had been gloating as he stuffed his fourth helping of chocolate-cake into his mouth; Lil and Harry hadn't even been allowed a sliver to share. One moment Dudley's eyes had been bugging with delight at the sight of their mournful, bitter faces, the next his eyes had widened as he began to swell, like Violet in _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_, except, not blue.

The strange thing about the incident with Dudley was that none of the Dursleys seemed to remember it at all. But Harry could; he hadn't been able to stop giggling at the thought of it for the next two months, and it kept them entertained while they were banished to the cupboard for three weeks, due to Harry turning their teacher's wig blue when they had picked on Lillian.

Then there were strange things Lillian took delight in; she could pluck a buttercup from the school field, and make its petals open and close like a queer shellfish: in that same school field, during break and lunchtimes, when it was sunny, she would sit in the shade of one of the ancient old oaks at the farthest end of the field, and an _adder_ would come and talk with her and Harry.

Harry had thought she had been teasing when she said she could talk to the snake—but then they had realised that Harry could understand it, too.

There were other things, too: Aunt Petunia consistently won the Little Whinging Best Garden competition, but only since she had started forcing Lil to tend the flowers. Anything Lil wanted to grow, it did, and beautifully. And then there was the undeniable fact that when they had been taunting and teasing and bullying Lil in the playground, several of the girls in her class had yelped and run away crying, with something like welts on their exposed skin, as if they had been stung. She might have had something to do with Rebecca's hair falling out after she had pulled Lillian's at every opportunity for a month; she had to wear a wig, and the doctor said Rebecca had _alopecia_. But Lil knew it had really been her. She could make twigs move to trip Dudley's friends when they were chasing after Harry, and the tyres of their bikes would pop and the chains would become dislodged if they chased after him on bikes.

And then there was the time that, having been asked by Aunt Petunia to hoover Dudley's bedroom, Dudley had pushed Lil, who had tripped over the cable, and tumbled out of the open bedroom-window. Harry, who had been hanging up the washing on the line, hadn't even managed to work up a good yell before Lillian elegantly somersaulted backward in a great, lingering arc, falling far too slowly, landing so lightly on her feet she could have just stepped outside the back-door.

Dudley, who had seen it all from the bedroom-window, had been flabbergasted: Harry had broken into tears later that night, when Aunt Petunia had banished Lillian to the cupboard for a fortnight in punishment for making Dudley babble on about magic, the way Lil had soared through the air like that.

The Dursleys didn't like magic.

If Dudley wanted to watch a television-programme that featured magic, Lillian and Harry were sent to their cupboard. As if Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia didn't want them getting any ideas.

But Lil had them in spades.

Dudley didn't like to read: but his second-bedroom was _full_ of broken gifts, and books that people had given him over the years. The Dursleys thought that since Dudley liked to sit in front of the television and eat, all children did just the same. But the books in Dudley's second-bedroom were the only thing that were never missed. Once, Harry had tried to play with a broken Transformer toy; he had been given three days in the cupboard, only released to use the toilet and have a drink of water. But the books? Inside their cupboard, the sole shelf was dedicated to the tin soldiers Harry had recovered from the second-bedroom without notice, and a selection of beautifully-bound books that included the classics, and one of them was _The Hobbit_.

It had taken Lillian a year to read the book; not because she was kept in the dark, or scrubbing Aunt Petunia's kitchen, or pruning the roses. Because Lillian didn't know how to read. She had spent so much time locked in the cupboard, _not_ going to school, that her teachers had quite overlooked the fact that she struggled with even basic reading skills. So Harry had had to read the books to her.

Gandalf was a _wizard_. And Lillian was sure she could probably do some of the things that Gandalf could. Did that make her a witch? Harry, a wizard? He could do things she could, too, though he didn't seem to be able to do them unless he was very angry, or very upset, and he got anxious about Lillian doing them in case she got hurt—like flinging herself from the topmost point of an arc when she sat on the one unbroken swing in the park near Magnolia Crescent, landing catlike and unruffled on the ground after a great soaring arc and somersaulting, as she had when she had fallen out of the window, though now she did it for pure enjoyment, after discovering that she _could_ do it in a moment of terror.

All of this had occurred before Lillian and Harry had reached the age of ten. Since their parents' deaths in a car-accident—the _hated_ accident, as it had landed Lil and Harry with the Dursleys—Lil and Harry had resided in the cupboard under the stairs in Number Four, Privet Drive. In the dark, spidery cupboard, Lil could sometimes dream of a flash of emerald light, a cold, cruel laugh, and then… Sometimes she thought she could hear another man's voice, this one rich but broken, desperately upset…and then she would dream of a flying motorcycle, and a big, bushy beard that tickled her cheek.

Lil had woken after that dream again—the flash of green light; the hair-raising laugh; the rich, heartbroken voice; the _motorcycle_… And she wanted to find that motorcycle, and the man with the warm voice. Because the Dursleys had taken it too far.

Harry hadn't meant to: the boa-constrictor hadn't snapped at Dudley's and Piers' heels—he had simply hissed, "_Thankssss, amigossss…_" and she could have sworn he had also said, "_Burma, here I come…_"

Harry was right about what he'd said to the boa-constrictor: he and Lillian had been raised in captivity as surely as the snake had.

But she was going to put a stop to that. She didn't know how, but she was going to find that man with the motorcycle. Because some part of her _knew_…knew he would take care of them. Some part of her knew that he was familiar, that…before her parents' accident, he had come to see them very often. Sometimes she could remember her dad, or at least, a hazy vision of an older Harry, blowing bubbles to amuse her, and sometimes there was a flicker of a very handsome man with an easy, wolfish grin who liked to cuddle her and kissed her cheeks until she giggled and squirmed.

Or was that her imagination? She knew her _magic_ wasn't her imagination; because Harry could do it too, and the Dursleys punished them every time they openly displayed their abilities. But was that vision of the handsome man, and the motorcycle, was that all her imagination, picking out tiny details of half-remembered dreams and spinning them into a tale she hoped beyond anything was true. It made things sometimes more bearable, sometimes _un_bearable, that their life with their parents had been so…happy. And that man was part of that happy previous life, the one where no Dursleys had existed, where they had probably slept in a bedroom, not a tiny dark cupboard, when they had been cuddled and cherished.

She had thought of going to the police: but the Little Whinging police had been called to Number Four once before, by a neighbour who had heard Uncle Vernon shouting so loudly at Harry and Lillian that they had been worried someone might be killed. Lillian and Harry had been stuffed into the cupboard and kept there a week. Hidden. As if they didn't exist. The Dursleys pretended they didn't exist, especially with regards to the neighbours, and any dinner-guests. Like unpaid servants, Lillian and Harry were kept only so they could do the cleaning, the gardening, the washing and the cooking, but were hidden out of sight whenever anyone but the Dursleys were at Number Four.

So what would going to the police help? She and Harry might be taken away from the Dursleys—and good riddance—but what would then become of them? Would they be _separated_?

Lillian had decided to set out alone: she could walk farther than Harry, and could do things with her magic that he didn't want to attempt, because he didn't understand why they could do those things that had earned them extended stays in the cupboard.

A single, concentrated thought, and the cupboard door unlocked itself; leaving Harry sleeping, tucked up in their little bed, she had tucked the blanket around him, closed the door on him, and set out from Number Four. It was halfway between Dudley's birthday and the summer-holidays starting, which meant it was a warmish night, but with a cool breeze. Lil wrapped the hand-me-down jacket of Dudley's around her, and kept walking; she didn't know where she was going, but some force was guiding her unerringly, but which she couldn't explain even to herself, to get to London. Something told her that London was a place she needed to be.

She had made it to the dual-carriageway, walking alongside the late-night traffic on the grass banks beside the roads, and just…kept walking.

She had had enough.

She wanted to go _home_. Not Number Four: that had _never_ been her home. Her home was with Harry, but she needed to leave Harry so she could find that man with the motorcycle. The Dursleys wouldn't care that she had run away; she had done it before, many times, and it was usually against her will that one of her classmates' mothers would find her and deliver her back to the Dursleys, who would lock her in the cupboard in punishment for embarrassing them when she screamed that she didn't want to go back.

The Dursleys would only care if she went back. And Lillian had no desire to. So she walked. She wanted to get to London, drawn by that unerring sense of rightness that accompanied thoughts of getting to the capital city.

When she found the man with the motorcycle, she would take him to Number Four, so he could see what state the Dursleys had kept them in the last nine, nearly ten years, and he would punish them.

Lillian tripped, and, falling, she flung out her right arm to stop her fall, her left hand tucked in the pocket of Dudley's old jacket.

Even over the noise of the dual-carriageway, Lillian heard the deafening _BANG_, and she threw up her hands to shield her eyes against sudden blinding light, as a large tyre appeared right in front of her face.

A gigantic pair of wheels and headlights screeched to a halt, a door folding open right before her; they belonged, as Lillian hastily scrambled off the ground, to a bus.

This was no bus as Lillian had ever seen them. This was a triple-decker, violently purple bus, with neat gold lettering over the top of the door spelling _The Knight Bus_.

For a moment, Lillian wondered if she had concussed herself—it had happened before; a concussion, not giving one to herself; usually it was Dudley.

Then a kind-looking older man in a purple uniform stepped down and smiled at her.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus," he said, smiling warmly. "Emergency transportation for the stranded witch or wizard: just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Malachi Jones, and I will be your conductor for this evening." Then he frowned subtly, glancing behind her, as if looking for someone.

Lil was too concerned with what he had said, '_Emergency transportation for the stranded witch or wizard_…' Witch. She knew it! All those things she could do _was_ magic! And Harry _was_ a wizard.

She followed the conductor up the steps shyly, her curiosity ignited.

"Did…did you say _witch_?" she asked breathlessly, glancing up at the much taller man. He angled his head to one side as he glanced down at her, taking in probably her vivid emerald-green eyes, her rather rambunctious hair, perhaps glimpsing, before she grabbed a lock of her hair and held it by her ear with both hands, the odd scar on her neck, just below her right ear. Harry loved his; it was the shape of a lightning-bolt, just as Lil's was, but his was right in the middle of his forehead. Lillian didn't like hers at all; it was ugly, and it only served as a constant reminder of the car-accident that had taken her parents from her. So she held a lock of hair in front of it, shyly, and gazed up at the man.

"I did say witch," he nodded, gazing at her with a thoughtful frown. Lil blinked several times, running that over.

"And…and what I can do…it's magic, isn't it," she breathed.

"I expect so," the man said, after a moment. He flicked his eyes over her again. "Where are your parents?" Lillian glanced away from the man, her cheeks warm, glancing down the bus, and was shocked to see, instead of rows of seats, a series of _beds_, all of them apparently having jumped a few feet when the bus had abruptly screeched to a halt in front of her nose. Only one of the beds was occupied, and in the light of the candles flickering in sconces, she saw the man's eyes glitter softly; when they made eye-contact, the man, who was young but very tired-looking, jumped, his eyes widening as he sat up, staring back at her. She flushed and glanced back at the conductor.

"I…don't have any parents," she said quietly.

"What are you doing out by yourself?" the conductor asked kindly.

"I…I'm looking for…for a man. A man with a motorcycle. It can fly," she said, twisting her hands together. The only strangers she had ever liked were the ones that smiled to her and had bowed to her once in a shop; the only strangers she liked wore magnificent waistcoats and top-hats of the most peculiar colours, like violet. This one wore a purple and gold uniform, and seemed nice. The man in the bed gave a jolt, as if something had just jumped out at him from the shadows, and he unfolded from his bed. His clothing was strange, long robes almost like teachers at Dudley's new school wore, but worn and neatly darned in places, and they hung off him as if he had lost a lot of weight very quickly, and very recently. He gazed at her as if he had seen a ghost.

"You…you shouldn't be out on your own," he said quietly; he had a soft, almost hoarse voice, but it was undeniably warm.

"I have to!" Lillian blurted desperately, her cheeks hot as her eyes burned. "I have to find him, so—so Harry and I can—but I don't have any money—"

"Did you run away from home?" the second, younger man asked gently, his voice the epitome of concern.

Lillian burst into tears.

"—don't—_have_—home. Make—stay—in—cupboard," she choked, hiding her face in her hands, and she cried, and cried, as she had never done before: the only time she cried was in front of Harry, and rarely, and never like this. If Uncle Vernon had walloped her: if Aunt Petunia had forbidden her food for days: if Dudley had thumped her black and blue. She would cry silently, trying not to wake Harry, but now, she sobbed.

She was so _tired_. She was so _unhappy_. She just wanted to run away, find the man on the motorcycle, get Harry, and never look back at the Dursleys ever again, never _think_ of them again.

She was vaguely aware of being sat down on something soft, and a huge _BANG_ made her jump and choke on her own sob; tears burning her cheeks, she tried to stem the flow, because they burned her eyes, and she couldn't see a thing. She was vaguely aware that the two men were talking in low, urgent voices, and as she wiped her eyes with her hands, she saw the conductor nod, and the second, younger man returned to the bed, sitting down carefully on the other end.

"My name is Remus," he said softly, holding out his hand. Lillian tried to wipe hers dry, licking at the tears that had splashed to the corner of her lips, and she sniffed as she shook his hand.

"Lillian—Lil," she said, heaving a breath, letting it out shakily. Remus nodded, and as she wiped her eyes, feeling her features crumple as she clenched her eyes shut, letting out another small sob, but she choked, sniffed, and sat up, wiping her face, because she had just seen an entire farmhouse dodge out of the way of the Bus as it tore down a twisty country lane.

"Where are we?" she asked hoarsely, sniffing.

"Just outside a little village in the Brecon Beacons, I think," Remus said, and Lil sat up a little straighter. She had learned about the Brecon Beacons during a geography lesson: they were in _Wales_.

"But…I got on in _Surrey_," she said wonderingly, gazing out of the front window, past Mr Jones the conductor. She started, wide-eyed. "And I don't have any money to pay for a ticket!"

"Don't worry about that," Remus said gently, fumbling with something in his pocket; he withdrew a bar of chocolate, though no kind Lil had ever seen when she had been sent to the shop by Aunt Petunia.

"But—"

"Mr Jones has very kindly allowed you to remain onboard so that we can have a chat," Remus said gently, and he carefully snapped the chocolate-bar into several pieces before neatly unwrapping it. Lillian glanced at it from the corner of her eye. The Dursleys, though they stocked their kitchen with every kind of sweet thing and snack imaginable, never let her or Harry have anything. Treats were for Dudley, and Aunt Petunia could spot the tiniest grain of sand on her linoleum floor, let alone a missing packet of crisps or a Mars bar.

She couldn't remember having _had_ chocolate before. Anything delicious, anything he suspected she or Harry wanted, Dudley ate, just to spite them, even if he made himself sick. The lemon ice-lolly and a quarter of a knickerbocker-glory at the zoo on Dudley's birthday had been her first taste of ice-cream.

Remus saw her glance at the chocolate, and his exhausted features warmed with a very affectionate smile, and he offered the little packet wrapped in golden foil. "Have some, Lillian." When Lil blushed, shaking her head shyly, he smiled. "It will do you good, make you feel a lot better." Shyly, Lillian glanced at the chocolate-bar, and hesitantly reached for the smallest piece.

It was the best thing she had ever tasted; creamy but not heavy, sweet but not sickly. As she let it melt on her tongue, gently sucking, wanting to savour it, the chocolate spread warmth from her fingertips to her toes, which surprised her. She _did_ feel better. With a little _snap_, Remus bit into a piece, smiling around it at her.

"See, better?" he said warmly, and Lillian smiled shyly at him. "So, do you want to tell me what's going on?" Lillian let out a shaky breath, careful to keep the chocolate tucked against her cheek like a hamster so she didn't lose it. It was delicious.

"It's a long story," she said shyly, her cheeks warming.

"Well, it's a good thing I'm one of the last stops," Remus smiled encouragingly. Lillian fiddled with the delicate bangle draped around her wrist; it was of gold, little more than half an inch wide, trimmed each side with little gold balls, and featuring a pattern of four-leaf clovers inset with some strange, beautiful stones like diamonds that glittered, in the dark of the cupboard, like starlight, and now, in the candlelight, shimmered and sparkled. Lillian couldn't remember not having this bracelet; no matter what she did, Aunt Petunia could not remove it, nor could the school nurse to whom she kept being sent because the bracelet was against school uniform codes. She didn't know how to start.

"What about Harry?" Remus prompted gently. "Who is Harry?"

"Harry's my brother," Lil said, sitting up a little straighter. "My twin-brother."

"And where is he?"

"I left him…in the cupboard," Lil mumbled. "I…thought I could…find the man with the motorcycle myself…and then we could go back for him…and he would teach the Dursleys a lesson." And then it was easier to talk, because Remus asked why the Dursleys would need teaching a lesson. Lillian started from as far back as she could remember, telling Remus everything: the cupboard under the stairs; the bullying at school; the adder in the playing-field; blowing up Dudley like a balloon, though none of the Dursleys remembered it, and, now that she thought back, the two men who had come to the house to deflate Dudley had been wearing robes almost like Remus's. She told Remus about Rebecca's hair falling out; about the flower; she told him about the shattering ornaments on the mantelpiece; about being locked in the cupboard as punishment; about not being given anything to eat for four days; she told him about Dudley pushing her and falling out of the window. She told him everything, ending with the fiasco at the zoo, with the boa-constrictor, but she fixated on the lemon ice-lolly being the first she had ever had.

As they jumped from Penzance to Stockbridge; Wimbledon; to Holyhead; Alnwick and Crianlarich; all the way down to Merthyr Tydfil and up to a place called Hogsmeade, which Remus briefly pointed out as they stopped in the middle of the picturesque cobblestone square, was the only non-Muggle establishment remaining in Britain, Lillian talked.

Remus's expressions changed swiftly, but they were all subtle, and she never knew whether he was angry or upset; but his features would darken, and when she told him about the adder she had befriended, and Harry's boa-constrictor, his eyes widened slightly. When she told him about Aunt Petunia nearly scalping her and Harry, after visiting the hairdresser and returning to Number Four looking like they hadn't gone at all, his expression turned very cool, mingled with anger, just as it had when she told him about Aunt Petunia walloping her; about Dudley beating her and Harry up; about the time the neighbour had called the police. He smiled softly when Lil told him about Mrs Figg's unusually smart cats, who seemed to always know when she was doing the gardening and would come and play with her, and the new kittens she had helped name; being allowed to finish Dudley's too-small knickerbocker-glory; flying from the swing at the park.

The only person who knew how the Dursleys treated Lillian was Harry, because he lived through it too: Lillian had never told _anybody_ else. She was so infrequently at school, and Dudley exerted so much authority over the class that if Lillian had gone to talk to the teacher, she certainly wouldn't have made it back to Number Four without a black eye or bloody lip, as had happened before. The teachers all seemed to…look the other way. They tried _not_ to notice the bruises; the fact that Lil, a ten-year-old _girl_, would frequently come to school wearing her male cousin's hand-me-down uniform; the fact that sometimes Lil would seem to _inhale_ her lunch, because at home she was being punished by not being given anything to eat.

One of the older dinner-ladies, who had noticed that she and Harry were the only two children in the school who were quiet and polite, and who remained silent and in the shadows, had taken her and Harry aside several times in consecutive years before her retirement, and made them sit in the kitchen and eat extra helpings, because they were so desperately thin. She had called Lil "a waif with eyes", and once Lillian had overheard some of the teachers, while they kept a lookout during playtime, saying that Lillian was "a tiny dot with too much hair, and arms as strong as steel"; because they were. Hard labour in the garden and scrubbing Aunt Petunia's house spotlessly clean had given Lillian a lot of strength for such a tiny thing. And she was tiny, smaller even than Harry.

She finished telling Remus about the boa-constrictor at the zoo, and Harry's imprisonment in the cupboard, and sighed; "So I decided it's time to find him."

"The man on the motorcycle?" Remus asked, with an inscrutable expression. Lillian nodded, and sighed tiredly again.

"I don't even know his name," she said softly, staring at her feet; she had her legs stretched out on the bed, just as Remus did, facing each other, their conversation overriding the need to lurch with every canon-blast _BANG_ that shot the Knight Bus from Aberdeen to Southampton. She sighed softly. "But I know he's real…even if I've only ever seen him in my dreams."

"Have you?" Remus asked curiously. Lil nodded.

"Sometimes I'll have a dream about a flying motorcycle, just on its own, but sometimes…" She sighed again. "Sometimes I'll have the dream after my nightmare."

"Which nightmare is this?" Remus asked.

"There's…there's a flash of bright green light, and then…someone laughs. Evil. I don't like that part… Then I hear his voice. The one with the motorcycle… He's crying, worse than I was earlier. And then I'm flying," she said softly, gazing at her hands, which were folded on her stomach. She glanced up, quick enough to see Remus's expression go completely stark. She sat up a little straighter. "Sometimes I have a dream where he—the man on the motorcycle—is cuddling me, and he kisses me so much I laugh." Lillian _rarely_ laughed. What did she have to be amused by? Only Harry could make her laugh. She sighed again. "Aunt Petunia says our parents were killed in a car-accident. But I've never heard of a car exploding _green_ before, have you?"

Remus's hand shook for a moment, as if he wanted to reach out and… Lillian didn't know, but his eyes had gone stark again, before his brow furrowed in confusion.

"A car-accident?" he said softly, almost to himself, staring at Lillian. He had such a peculiar expression on his face, Lil didn't know what he was thinking. To himself, he half-whispered, "How could they tell you a car-accident killed Lily and James?"

Lillian glanced up. _Lily and James_?

"Were…were they my parents' names?" she whispered, gazing at Remus. He stared at her, again as if a ghost was gazing back at him.

"You don't… No one ever told you your parents' names?" he said softly. Lillian shook her head. Her mother had been named Lily too. _James_ was her daddy's name.

"Aunt Petunia said our parents were killed in a car-accident. And that's all," she said, fiddling with a hole in the bedspread. "Aunt Petunia doesn't like us asking questions."

"But your aunt and uncle told you about your parents being a witch and wizard?" Remus frowned. Lillian scoffed softly.

"Uncle Vernon almost crashed the car when Harry said he'd had a dream about the flying motorcycle," she said, on a small sigh. "Every time something odd happens, we're locked in the cupboard again. Uncle Vernon says there's no such thing as magic." Remus stared at her.

Then he pulled a _wand_ from the pocket of his robes, murmured something and gave the wand a complicated twiddle, and—a bunch of flowers appeared at the end; he swept them up, and handed them to Lillian. Who couldn't hitch her jaw from her chin.

"No such thing as magic?" he said gently, and a tiny smile touched his eyes as he gazed at Lillian's stunned stare. "Then where did your parents learn it from, I wonder."

"My…my mum and dad were…were like me?" she whispered. Remus's smile turned very warm.

"Two of the best wizards of the age," he said affectionately. "And I imagine you will be, too, once you're trained at Hogwarts."

"What's Hogwarts?" Lillian asked curiously. She had heard him mention the name when they had stopped in Hogsmeade—Remus had said that Hogwarts was only a stone's-throw from the little Tudor cobblestone village. Remus gazed at her, as if in pain. Licking his lips slowly, he offered her another piece of chocolate, before crumpling he empty foil.

"Hogwarts is a school. The only school of witchcraft and wizardry in Britain," he said, and Lillian stared at him.

"There's a _school_ for witchcraft?" Lillian whispered. Remus sighed softly.

"Your don't know anything, do you?" he said gently. Lillian glanced down at the bedspread, her cheeks heating as her eyes burned. It wasn't her fault, sometimes, that she spent weeks on end locked in the cupboard, missing school—with nobody missing her to realise that she… She didn't go to school. "I meant… I meant about _our_ world. Your world. Your _parents'_ world."

"What world?" Lillian asked, glancing up, still ashamed that he had guessed correctly; she was uneducated. Remus sighed heavily.

"In 1692, the International Confederation of Wizards enacted the Statute of Wizarding Secrecy," he said softly. "Ever since, witches and wizards all over the world have lived in a society separate from, but coexisting with, that of Muggles. Non-magical people," he added, at Lillian's blank expression. "Before even the Statute was enacted, Hogwarts was founded, over a thousand years ago, by the four greatest witches and wizards of their age. The year a magical child turns eleven, they receive a letter from Hogwarts, inviting them to come and study magic there for seven years."

"When they turn eleven," Lillian breathed, sitting up straighter and gazing at Remus. "I… Harry and I turn eleven…in July." Remus smiled.

"Then I feel certain in promising two Hogwarts letters will be winging their way to you very soon," he said warmly.

"One for Harry too?" Lil breathed. Remus smiled.

"With the antics that you've told me your brother gets up to, I'm sure he will have a place at Hogwarts," he chuckled softly. Lillian settled down again. There was a school for people like her—like her and Harry: a school for people who could do _magic_. Where she would become a witch; where Harry would learn to become a wizard: where their _parents_ had been educated. The year they turned eleven, Remus had said. She and Harry turned eleven on the thirty-first of July; their letters would be arriving soon.

"So you see, it's not so very long, and you will be at Hogwarts," Remus said gently. "Just a few more months. Unless things have changed since I was a student there, the autumn term at Hogwarts begins on the first of September." Lillian may not be educated, but she knew the months of the year. Now it was May. May; June; July; August…September.

All of the summer. All of those months when no school-teacher separated them from Dudley with desks; when Aunt Petunia turned a blind eye to anti-slavery laws and laws against child-labour and had Lillian and Harry gardening and cleaning and cooking all day. All summer of hiding from Dudley's gang of friends. Remus watched her carefully.

"To you that must seem like an eternity," he said softly, his expression sad and wistful.

"Little Whinging is the next stop," Mr Jones called softly from the front of the bus, and Lillian glanced up, her stomach turning. She glanced at Remus.

"I don't want to go back," she whispered, staring at him with wide eyes. Something crumpled in his features, but Lillian couldn't tell what.

"Only a few months more, Lillian, I promise," he said softly. With a _BANG_, the Knight Bus was hurtling around Magnolia Crescent, and then it lurched to a stop, sending the beds skidding five feet, at the mouth of Privet Drive. Lillian glanced out of the window, her stomach hurting. She glanced back at Remus, opening her mouth to ask—anything; could she stay with him? Would he kidnap her if she asked? What about the man on the motorcycle? She had set out looking to find that man, the one in her dream.

She had discovered that her parents' names were James and Lily. That they had been a _witch _and _wizard_. And that she, Lillian, was a witch too. Harry was a _wizard_, and soon they would receive letters from a school of magic that was a thousand years old, to invite them to learn there. A proper school, a _boarding_-school, far away from the Dursleys.

"Here," Remus said gently, and he pulled something out of his pocket; it flashed gold, and Lillian leaned away from it. It was a coin, a fat gold one that shone as brightly as her bracelet. It wasn't like any coin she had ever watched Dudley gloatingly count out of his piggybank. She glanced up at Remus, who motioned for her hand: she shook her head.

"You cannot go around without any money," Remus said gently. "This is called a Galleon: The highest form of currency in the wizarding world. There are seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon, and twenty-nine bronze Knuts to a Sickle, so remember that when you're given change. Mr Jones here will keep an eye on you if you and your brother need to use the Knight Bus again. Do you remember how to summon it?"

"Stick out my wand arm," she said, remembering what Mr Jones the conductor had said upon greeting her on the dual-carriageway. She frowned. "Which is my wand arm?" Remus smiled.

"Which do you write with?" he asked. Lillian thought for a moment. She _could_ write her name; she used her right hand, and she wiggled it for Remus, who smiled.

"Then stick it out if you need to use the Knight Bus," he said. "When you and Harry receive your Hogwarts letters, you'll want to go to Diagon Alley to buy all of your school-things. It's in London," he said, at Lillian's perplexed look. He indicated Mr Jones with a nod. "Mr Jones will point you in the right direction."

Sorrowfully, Lillian sighed, and stood up. "Thank you for the chocolate. It was the best I've ever tasted."

"I'm glad you liked it," Remus smiled. But she wouldn't take the Galleon. "Lillian, I will sleep better at night knowing you have some money for emergencies." She bit her lip, and he reached out, took her hand, and place the Galleon in her palm, closing her fingers over it. "Now, off with you. You should be fast asleep. No more midnight wanderings, alright?" Regretfully, Lillian nodded.

"Will…will I see you again?" she asked. Remus smiled warmly, ushering her to the steps. Mr Jones smiled warmly at her as she climbed down. Turning as she reached the pavement, she glanced at Remus.

"I should expect so, Lillian Potter," he said. With a wave, the door folded shut, and with a tremendous _BANG_ that Lillian was surprised didn't wake every resident of Privet Drive, the Knight Bus disappeared.

It was only as she settled quietly into bed beside Harry that she realised Remus had known her surname, though she had never given it… And how had he known who her parents were, if even _she_ didn't?

* * *

**A.N.**: Harry Potter, the way I imagine a twin would twist the story, in a lot of significant ways. Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N.**: This is for _ElizabethAnneSoph_, because you reviewed first! You're great that way.

* * *

**Perpetual Underestimation**

_02_

* * *

As Lillian had predicted, the start of the summer holidays increased the number of beatings Dudley and his gang inflicted on Harry, who had finally been let out of the cupboard, and Lil: the only thing that kept Lil from turning Dudley and his friends into beetles and squashing them with one of Aunt Petunia's expensive saucepans was _hope_.

The morning she had woken after her strange bus-ride, she had thought it had been a dream; hers were always so lifelike. The only thing that convinced her otherwise was the fact that, when she had been woken by the sound of Aunt Petunia screeching for her to get up and cook the breakfast, she had been exhausted, more exhausted than an afternoon of cleaning or a day of cooking a nice meal for one of Aunt Petunia's dinner-parties. And she bore in her pocket a fat gold coin, with strange runes around the edge, featuring an image of what Lillian thought was a dragon.

After a brief second's hesitation, Lil _didn't_ show Harry the coin: she wedged it neatly into the little crack in the wall behind the little stack of second-hand books on their tiny shelf, hidden out of sight. Not that any of the Dursleys ever looked inside the cupboard, but if Dudley decided to reach in and smack her on his way to the kitchen, as so often happened, he would see the gold and snatch it from her faster than she could say 'Selfish pig'.

Cast out into the garden all day, Lillian thought over everything that had occurred. At first, she had to really concentrate on what she remembered Remus having said; it all felt so fantastical, given that she spent the hours wedding the flowerbeds, her back aching, her knees bruised, constantly whacked by Dudley whenever he got bored of chortling at her labouring away while he lolled around in the shade eating ice-creams.

She knew that it had all been real; she _had_ boarded a three-storey purple bus, and had talked to the kindest man she had ever met, named Remus, who had given her some _chocolate_, and had known the names of her parents, and even Lillian's surname, though she had never given it. She thought about the Knight Bus, and she thought about _Hogwarts_.

Used to being a sort of live-in servant for the Dursley family, it wasn't unusual for Lil to be up before anyone else to bring the milk in from the front-step: it wasn't unusual for Harry to be out washing Uncle Vernon's brand-new company car when he was allowed out of the cupboard. What was unusual was Lillian's anticipation over the post, not that the Dursleys noticed it. It wasn't unusual for Uncle Vernon to send her to pick up the post and the newspaper while he, Aunt Petunia and Dudley ate their breakfast, and while Harry dished up bacon, eggs, sausage and mushrooms, dodging the stick that Dudley had been given alongside his new uniform for Smeltings, the school he would start as a year-seven in September, and which was said to build character, Lillian dashed to get the post when she heard the familiar clinking shuffle of the letterbox flap.

She chanced a glance at Harry before leaving the kitchen, covertly leaving the kitchen door open only a sliver so as to block the view into the hallway. There were several bills for Uncle Vernon, a new gardening magazine for Aunt Petunia as well as the Little Whinging newsletter, a postcard that looked to be from Uncle Vernon's hideous sister Marjory, and…two letters…

They were of a thick, yellowish paper, quite weighty, and addressed in elegant script she could barely decipher; the ink was emerald-green, and on the back of each envelope was a red wax seal, with a letter H superimposed on four animals: a lion; a badger; a raven; and a snake.

The first envelope was addressed to _Mr Harry James Potter_. The second, to _Miss Lillian Estella Potter_. Both were further addressed;

_Cupboard Under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

She had difficulty deciphering the top line, but knew the address from all of the post she carried in for Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Cup…board. Cupboard. _Their cupboard_. Un-der. Under. The—she knew that one. St..st-_air_. _Stairs_.

_Cupboard Under the Stairs_. Their cupboard under the stairs.

The wizard who had written knew about the cupboard!

"Hurry up, girl!" Uncle Vernon barked: Lil jumped, hastily hid the two envelopes in the cupboard, and entered the kitchen. She glanced at Harry as she helped him with the breakfast, pouring tea and refilling Dudley's glass with chocolate-milk (receiving a _thwack_ over her forearm that made Uncle Vernon chuckle, "Little tyke!" and rumple Dudley's blonde hair, while a welt rose in her skin) and she chanced a brief but dazzling grin to herself.

They were _here_. Their _Hogwarts_ letters.

Just as Remus had promised.

And not a moment too soon: one more whack from Dudley's smelting stick and she was going to use magic to shove it up his nose as far as it would go.

* * *

Lil had wondered how long to wait until she gave Harry his letter. It was nearly the thirty-first of July. Their _birthday_.

They had never received birthday-presents before. Not even a card. The Dursleys didn't believe their birth was something worthy of a celebration; they continually griped about how much it cost them to keep Lil and Harry.

But every year, Harry would pluck a flower from the garden, and give it to her. Lil had scavenged the tin-soldiers Harry liked to play with, taking them one at a time from Dudley's second-bedroom, so he wouldn't notice.

On the thirtieth of July—Lil knew it was because Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had been nattering over the devolving state of the "recently great nation" over the news—Lil decided to show Harry the letters. They had to wait until night-time to open the envelopes, and only when Lil was certain the Dursleys were asleep. Dreading that one of the Dursleys might hear the sound of tearing paper as they went to visit the bathroom, they waited until Uncle Vernon's and Dudley's snores had been echoing around the house for an hour before Lillian carefully removed the envelopes from where she had hidden them—inside a copy of _Wuthering Heights_.

Harry carefully clicked on the sole bulb in the cupboard, under which they huddled, and glanced curiously at the envelope Lil passed him.

"Happy birthday," she whispered. Harry, perplexed, took the envelope, and Lillian carefully opened her own, so carefully, in fact, that the wax seal did not break. But as she carefully removed the thick parchment from the envelope, her heart sank. More of the same curling, elegant handwriting had addressed the letter, and she glanced at Harry, who was already reading his own.

"What does it say?" she breathed. Harry, fidgeting, glanced at her, pushing his round glasses up his nose, and he murmured;

* * *

"HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorcerer; Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot; Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards_)

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_."

* * *

He set this letter aside, in favour of two others neatly arranged with what looked like lists. She glanced inquiringly at Harry, who scanned the first section before reading quietly;

* * *

"**Uniform**

_First year students will require:_

_(3) Three sets of plain work robes (black)_

_(1) One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_

_(1) One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_

_(1) One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_

_*Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags_

**Set Books**

_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) _by Miranda Goshawk_

A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot_

Magical Theory _by Adalbert Waffling_

A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration _by Emeric Switch_

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ by Phyllida Spore_

Magical Drafts and Potions _by Arsenius Jigger_

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Scamander_

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ by Quentin Trimble_

**Other Equipment**

_1 Wand_

_1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)_

_1 set glass or crystal phials_

_1 telescope_

_1 set brass scales_

_Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad_

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS_."

* * *

Harry glanced at her, utterly perplexed.

"I told you it was magic we can do," Lil whispered, a smile curling her lips. Harry glanced from Lil to the letter.

"Where did these come from?" he breathed.

"The post," Lil beamed. And she told him about her adventure: the Knight Bus; Remus; Mr Jones the conductor; Hogwarts; how Remus had known their parents' names. Harry listened to it all, his eyes widening, and he glanced from her to the letter once again.

"This…this is _real_?" he breathed, and Lil grinned.

"We're getting out of here," she whispered, undiluted excitement colouring every syllable. She licked her lips. "Read the list of things we need to buy, again." Harry did so.

Lil sat back against the cupboard wall, a pillow squashed at the small of her back. Dragon-hide gloves; Adalbert Waffling and Arsenius Jigger? They sounded like names from a Charles Dickens book. And she had to buy a telescope and a pewter _cauldron_! They were going to learn _Transfiguration_ and Potions, and learn about magical creatures!

She glanced at Harry, who gazed back, his expression torn between exhilaration and dismay.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly. Harry licked his lips, glancing at his own letter.

"We have to buy all of these things…" he said quietly, his tone dubious as he continued, "Where can you buy wands?" Lillian knew the answer to that; Remus had told her.

"Mr Ollivander's shop in Diagon Alley," she said; she had memorised the name, stunned that Remus had a real _wand_. Aunt Petunia thought Lillian had picked the flowers from the meadow near the playground, but they stood on the windowsill in the kitchen; only Lillian knew they had been _conjured_ by _magic_, because she wasn't stupid enough to tell Aunt Petunia otherwise; she would bin them. "Remus said it's in London." Harry's shoulders slumped.

"Even if we can get to London, we'll never convince the Dursleys to pay for _spell-books_ and wands," he whispered miserably. Lillian sighed, frowning at her toes, and thought: Remus had given her a Galleon. She didn't know how much that was worth in the Wizarding world, or what the conversion-rate to pounds sterling was, but Remus had said a Galleon was the wizarding world's highest currency. If they got to Diagon Alley…perhaps they could ask someone how they could acquire some money to pay for their school-things. There must be other adults like Remus to ask, kind ones who might not laugh at their lack of knowledge about the wizarding world.

"Read the bit about the owl again," she said thoughtfully.

"Um… '_Term begins on the first of September. We await your owl by no later than the thirty-first of July_'," Harry read out softly. "What does that mean, they await our owl?"

"I don't know," Lil sighed, still frowning. She glanced at the other corner of the cupboard, where the little shelf housed the stack of books and the tin-soldiers, and the gold Galleon she had carefully hidden for the last few weeks. "If we can get to Diagon Alley…someone should be able to tell us, shouldn't they?"

"I suppose so," Harry said thoughtfully.

"Tomorrow is the thirty-first," she said, mulling that over. They had until tomorrow to find out what 'awaiting an owl' meant, do it, and gather their school-things.

"We should go now," she said thoughtfully. Harry turned to stare at her.

"_Now_!" he blurted.

"_Shh!_" They fell silent, listening, but the monotony of Uncle Vernon's and Dudley's snores continued unbroken. Uncle Vernon would bellow and harrumph like an irritable hippo if woken in the middle of the night; Aunt Petunia was the one to watch for. She would force them to clean the kitchen again until Lil could see her face in the linoleum while she returned to bed, and having spent all day in the garden, bent over double, the back of her neck scorched from the sun, Lil had no desire to spend another few hours scrubbing.

When the coast was clear, Lil let out a soft sigh, glancing at Harry.

"The letter says that…we have to send an owl _by_ the thirty-first. We have until tomorrow," she whispered. "And we've got to discover how we can pay for all these things we need, and buy them, and we don't know how to _get_ to Hogwarts on the first of September."

"And you want to go now?" Harry said softly. Lil nodded.

"I'm not staying here anymore," she said quietly, but with conviction, staring around the tiny cupboard. "I'm never coming back here."

"Where will you live?" Harry asked dubiously, giving her a look, a tiny smile making his eyes sparkle excitedly.

"Hogwarts," she replied seamlessly. She had been thinking on it; Hogwarts was a boarding-school. Surely there were other orphan witches and wizards. Maybe the school allowed such children to remain at Hogwarts during the holidays. For a little while, they were both quiet. Then Harry murmured, "Tell me about the Knight Bus again." Lil smiled, and did. She told him about Mr Jones the conductor; about the three-storeys of beds; about the chandeliers, and Madam Marsh throwing up when they reached Totnes, which made him giggle softly. She brought out the Galleon from its hiding-place to show him, and they examined it minutely. Harry didn't know what the letters around the edge meant; he said they were a different language.

"What d'you suppose we need to take with us?" Harry wondered. Lillian glanced around the cupboard. She reached for the stack of books; _The Hobbit_, _Wuthering Heights_, _Oliver Twist_, _Great Expectations_ and _The Blue Lagoon_. From the folds of their bedding, Lil pulled out the only thing they had arrived at Number Four with, and which Dudley had never managed to take from them; two small blankets, one white and worn, the other red and patterned with a dragon on the front. Lil's was the white, threadbare and the softest thing in the world: it was in this Lil tied up her books, gathering it up like a parcel. She glanced at Harry.

"I'm set," she whispered. Harry didn't take anything from the cupboard besides his blanket. They crept out of it, but while Lil checked the coast was clear upstairs, Harry remained at the door of the cupboard, staring into it, with a peculiar expression on his face.

Finally, he clicked the light off, and closed and locked the door.

As they snuck out of the house, Lil couldn't help _grinning_.

"What a shock they'll get tomorrow morning when they realise we're gone and they'll have to make their own breakfast!" she whispered, and Harry grinned as he offered his hand: Lil slipped her hand in his, and they set off. Lil didn't look back.

"Where should we get on the bus?" he whispered.

"The playground," Lil murmured back. As they walked, Lil hummed softly to herself; she only did this when she was alone, or with Harry, and happy. Very rarely, then: but as they walked, she had the sneaking suspicion that…something was behind them. Harry glanced at her anxiously, and Lil knew he felt it too, the fine hairs at the back of his neck prickling just as hers did. They stopped, and Lil glanced around. A clever-looking cat stopped, giving them such an arch expression that Harry glanced guiltily at Lil.

"Mr Tibbles!" she whispered, gasping softly, leaning down to scratch him behind the ears like he liked. "You shouldn't be wandering about." The cat gave her a look that said quite plainly, 'You shouldn't either'.

"Isn't Mr Tibbles a cat who belongs to Mrs Figg?" Harry asked.

"Oh! We won't be able to say goodbye!" Lil gasped softly, her shoulders slumping slightly. Miserable Harry's times at Mrs Figg's house might be, what with the smell of overcooked cabbage and the photograph-albums of every cat Mrs Figg had ever owned, but Lillian loved the kittens Mrs Figg bred. She would lie on Mrs Figg's living-room floor and sit stroking the little balls of fluff, completely content.

"We can write a letter to her," Harry suggested, and Lil nodded. They set out again. A few minutes later, Harry murmured, "Is he still following us?" Lillian glanced over her shoulder.

"Yes. We're nearly there, though," she said, and they walked on, disregarding the cat. When they came to the playground, it was completely empty; not even the few rambunctious teenagers who liked to smoke and drink here in the evenings were about. A faint layer of dew glittered on the merry-go-round, the slides, and the swings, and everything took on an amber glow from the solitary streetlight at the corner of the playground.

"Have you got the Galleon?" Harry whispered. Lil opened her palm, showing the fat round coin. They each clutched their Hogwarts letters in their hands; Lil hadn't let go of hers since she had opened it. "What do we have to do again?"

"Stick our wand-arms out," Lil replied in an excited whisper. "You do it; I've got these books."

"What's my wand-arm?"

"The hand you write with," Lillian said, remembering what Remus had said. Harry nodded, looked around as if afraid invisible people would start laughing at him, and punched his right arm out over the road.

With a tremendous _BANG_, Harry jumped about a foot, and Lillian laughed at the expression on her brother's face as the triple-decker, violently-purple bus screeched to a halt in front of them. Harry turned a gobsmacked face to her, as if to say '_You were telling the truth!_' The door folded open, and Mr Jones smiled down at her.

"You again?" he said cheerfully, chuckling under his breath. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"Too _excited_!" Harry blurted, gazing avidly up the steps into the bus, at the brass bedsteads and the candles flickering on the walls.

"We'd like to go to Diagon Alley, please," Lil said. She frowned. "How much is a child's fare?"

"Six sickles each," Mr Jones said, giving her a hand up the first step, she was so little. She quickly did the maths; though she was illiterate, she still knew her numbers, and she had memorised the sums Remus had told her: one Galleon equalled seventeen Sickles; one Sickle equalled twenty-nine Knuts. Six plus six was twelve, so when she handed her Galleon over, she should receive…five Sickles in change.

"Why don't you take two beds up front," Mr Jones said, gesturing them to two beds near the armchair in which the driver sat, munching on a cucumber sandwich, great owl-eyes peering out onto the road through bottle-cap glasses. Suddenly the haphazard driving of her last bus-ride made sense. She and Harry didn't sit on separate beds; they shared one, sat together, and Harry watched curiously as Mr Jones rang up their tickets with an old-fashioned little polished wooden ticket-dispenser, and handed Lil her five silver Sickles in change, along with two purple and gold tickets printed, Harry read out, with '_Little Whingeing, Surrey, to Diagon Alley, London. Child's Fare: 6 S._' beneath gold lettering spelling '_The Knight Bus_' on a little picture of a purple bus.

"Take her away, Ernie," Mr Jones said, and with a tremendous _BANG_, the bed slid five feet to the back of the bus, and Harry clutched at the side of the bed to prevent toppling off.

"So, Diagon Alley," Mr Jones said, eyeing the two of them. His eyes lit on the identical envelopes clasped in each of their hands. "Ahh," he added slowly, with a warm smile. "Your Hogwarts letters."

"Yes!" Lil beamed. "Remus said they would come. I've been watching every day for them."

"And you decided to steal out in the dead of night to come to London?" Mr Jones said, smirking subtly. Lil shrugged, and Harry grinned. The idea of sneaking out of Number Four was a delicious one in itself; but add to it the fact that they were going to _London_, to buy _spell-books_ for their new magical _boarding_-school, was just…

"Do you know what they mean, sir?" Harry said quietly, taking the letter out of his envelope. "'_We await your owl by no later than the thirty-first of July_'."

"Confirmation of your places," Mr Jones said. "When you get to Diagon Alley, you should head to the Post Office. Ask for a piece of parchment, and write to…who addressed your letters?"

"They're from…Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress," Harry said, glancing at his letter. Lil glanced from him to Mr Jones.

"Well, you should address the letter to Professor McGonagall, saying you wish to confirm your places at Hogwarts," Mr Jones said. "Someone at the Post Office will be able to help you." Lil nodded. She sat back against the bedstead, hands folded in her lap.

"Never been to London before," she said softly, gazing at the foot of the bed. She had never been to London, not even for the Year Five school-trip to the Tower of London, or the Year Six trip to the British Museum. She and Harry had been locked in the cupboard for both: Dudley had returned from the Tower with a book on Henry VIII as a young man filled with pictures of jousting and feasts and his six wives; from the British Museum, Dudley had returned with a book on Pharaoh Tutankhamen, a statue of a dog-headed Egyptian god, and a little blue Scarab beetle.

With many tumblings and gigglings—and grimaces over the sound of Madam Marsh throwing up spectacularly upstairs—the Knight Bus dropped off the passengers who had boarded before them: Mr Jones gave Harry his copy of the _Evening Prophet_, a wizarding newspaper in which the photographs _moved_. Lillian had never seen a newspaper like it: everything was set out with the letters curled around everything else; photographs were colourful and _moved_; things flashed and sparkled and some of the advertisements changed from one moment to the next.

"Fudge is bungling things up again, as per usual," Mr Jones sighed, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned casually against a pole, the Bus jumping from Torquay to Edinburgh.

"Who's Fudge?" Lil asked curiously, glancing away from the photograph of a portly man in a violently acidic-green bowler-hat.

"The Minister for Magic," Mr Jones sighed. Harry glanced up.

"There's a _Ministry_ of Magic?" he blurted.

"Course. We wanted Albus Dumbledore for Minister, but everybody says he'd never leave Hogwarts," Mr Jones smiled. "And after Crouch fell from favour, Cornelius Fudge got the job. Heavens know why. Useless bureaucrat too fond of his own position. So he pelts Professor Dumbledore with owls every morning, asking for advice."

"I've never heard of a Ministry of Magic," Lil said thoughtfully. "Uncle Vernon would have had a fit."

"Ah, well, the main job of the Ministry is to keep it from Muggles that there are still witches and wizards up and down the country," Mr Jones said.

"Muggles?" Harry glanced up.

"Non-magical people," Mr Jones said.

"Why do wizards and witches have to keep it from Muggles that they exist?"

"_Why_?" Mr Jones chuckled. "Can't you imagine? Every Muggle would want magic solutions to their problems. That, and they'd keep trying to burn us at the stake. No, we're best left alone. Though there is a small minority who believe the International Statute of Secrecy should be repealed."

"Why was it enacted in the first place?" Lil asked, remembering the term 'enacted' from Remus.

"Well, it was just after the greatest number of witch-burnings since the Roman Empire," Mr Jones said. "Germany especially was hit hard by the persecutions, but it was Muggles who were being burned."

"We learned about that in History," Harry said, glancing up. "The European Reformations—it was all to do with religion and power. And then in America ages afterwards, a few people were executed for witchcraft, but they really just wanted each other's land." Mr Jones quirked an eyebrow thoughtfully.

"So Anne Boleyn _wasn't_ a witch?" Lillian asked; she had always been rather intrigued by Henry VIII and his six wives: 'Divorced; beheaded; died; divorced; beheaded; survived'.

"Oh, she was," Mr Jones chuckled. "I've got her on a Chocolate Frog card. Very famous in her time—of course, she didn't exactly get things done the way the Ministry had wanted; ended up getting her head cut off instead of earning acknowledgement and protection of wizards from King Henry. If she'd been burned, she would have been able to do a Flame-Freezing Charm and pretended to shriek and scream in pain, and Apparated off, but…"

"Flame-Freezing?"

"Apparated?" Mr Jones chuckled.

"Apparition is the way in which wizards and witches can disappear into thin air, and reappear anywhere else of their choosing," he said.

"Cool!" Lil grinned.

"What does a Flame-Freezing Charm do?" Harry asked curiously. "Turn flames to ice?"

"No," Mr Jones smiled. "A Flame-Freezing Charm makes the flames feel like…like being tickled. Wendelin the Weird got herself caught on charges of witchcraft nearly fifty times because she enjoyed the sensation so much."

"That is weird. Why would you want to be burned _once_?" Lil grimaced, shivering. Mr Jones chuckled at her expression, but conversation was prohibited due to the Bus being flagged down by a family outside Poole.

Lil cuddled up to Harry, resting her head on his shoulder, and he quietly read the newspaper to her, using his finger to follow the words he was saying. He even tread out the cues for the crosswords at the back of the newspaper ('Witchlets and Wizardlings': 'Cerebrally Stimulating': 'Nastily Difficult': 'Dumbledore Only, Thank You!'), as well as the answers Mr Jones seemed to have inked in to some of them, and where several strange games were spread out, like extremely complicated Sudoku; pentagonal-shaped, with a large star made up of many smaller stars, each filled with many little squares and triangles, some filled with tiny intricate symbols, some with numbers, with a list of ten cues also written in those strange symbols. There was a cut-out for what looked like an octagonal dartboard, but instead of numbers marking the scores, each of the sections featured a different dare; the cut-out was an advertisement in itself, displaying the new streamlined "Billywig" darts used for the game, which looked like odd little bright-blue birdlike creatures with long stings and helicopter-like translucent wings at the top of their heads. Some of the dares made them giggle, only because some of the words were so peculiar.

Harry was curious about _Quidditch_, a game played on broomsticks, and which had its own section in the _Evening Prophet_, and a little square in the corner of one of the pages which seemed to feature up-to-the-second odds on betting for several matches between teams with names like 'Ballycastle Bats' and 'Holyhead Harpies', and there was a photograph—moving, again—of seven women on broomsticks, passing an oddly-shaped red ball to each other, dodging two black balls; there was a notice from _Quality Quidditch Supplies, Diagon Alley, London_ about the sale on Snitches. Lillian liked the picture of the Snitch, a delicate little golden ball with sinuous silvery wings.

Because they weren't just riding around for the sake of a conversation to calm Lillian down, that they were actually disembarking in London, their journey to the capital-city was only disrupted by being flagged down by other witches and wizards. Lillian loved watching them as they passed to the stairs up to the top floors.

She was reminded very much of the man in the silk top-hat who had once bowed to her and Harry in a shop—making Aunt Petunia leave in a huff—as she observed the things witches and wizards wore. She committed things to memory: the cut of tops; the personalised details on high-heeled shoes, boots of a glossy, beautiful hide in all different colours, all of which ranged from embellished Georgian silk heels to sleek black stilettos: each of the witches and wizards who flagged the Knight Bus down wore an eclectic mix of antique-Muggle and Wizard fashions, the women wearing beautiful fabrics in styles that fit their figures, rather than the other way around, with exquisite details, and she saw silk skirts; beautifully-embroidered silk and velvet waistcoats (one man wore three, with a cravat and a monocle and a gold watch-chain); _very_ pretty hats that Aunt Petunia had watched for during the Royal Wedding, and _gloves_, some embroidered, some intricately ruched with tiny golden pearls, some knitted and some of the most delicate lace, glittering with tiny beads.

"Next stop, Diagon Alley," Mr Jones said, and Lil sat up a little straighter. Harry, who was engrossed in the play-by-play for a game of Quidditch between the Kenmare Kestrels and the Holyhead Harpies, regretfully folded the newspaper up neatly. Mr Jones, seeing his expression, chuckled. "You keep it. I've already read it. It'll only be kindling for a fire otherwise." Harry grinned sheepishly, and clung on to the newspaper. "Both got your letters?" Lil hadn't let go of hers. She gathered up her little stack of books, counted each of the silver coins in her pocket, and got ready to disembark. "Alright, now, you'll want to go into the Leaky Cauldron; we'll stop right in front of it for you, so you don't get lost. See Tom the barman. He'll know what to do with you."

With a _BANG_ and a screech, the Knight Bus lurched to a stop. They just about managed not to pitch from the bed, glad they had taken Mr Jones' advice not to stand before the Bus had stopped. At the steps, he pointed out a small, dingy-looking pub that rested between a closed bookshop and a record-store, and in fact, the entrance was so unremarkable that Lil's eyes might have slid over it if Mr Jones hadn't pointed it out. "In you go," Mr Jones said, gently guiding them down the steps, and she clasped Harry's hand as they made their way to the door of the Leaky Cauldron. They had barely stepped inside when, with a _BANG_, the Knight Bus disappeared.

* * *

Lil shut the door behind her, and it was as if they had stepped into another world. Another _time_: though the outside had been dingy, the interior of the pub shone with a vibrant golden light reflected from the polished, panelled walls; little booths lined the room, while little round tables and long rectangular ones were scattered around; a huge fire roared in a fireplace large enough for Lil to stand on top of Harry's shoulders and still clear the ceiling: someone played a piano rather jauntily, accompanied by what sounded like a set of spoons, bagpipes, and several fiddles; though quite late in the evening, the pub was packed, full to bursting with witches and wizards all with even more eclectic arrays of clothing than the ones who had boarded the Knight Bus. It was hot, and fragrant, the chatter loud, laughter ringing raucously through the pub, as little witches with elaborate little hats chatted excitedly and tippled sherry; a cloud of smoke rose from the men in the corner, all of whom bore handsome moustaches or mutton-chops and an array of waistcoats, cravats and smoking-jackets and top-hats.

Lil felt distinctly small and shy in this raucous pub. She watched a waiter disappear an empty wine bottle into a dishcloth and stared as several steaming tureens levitated over to a small family surrounded by packages wrapped in brown paper and string. Glancing up at the chandeliers as they wended their way uncertainly to the bar, Lil saw that from the perches hung several bats, and an _owl_ hooted serenely, ruffling its feathers, from the gallery banister. Upstairs in the gallery, more small round tables were set out, and up there it seemed like there were more families dining than witches and wizards drinking sociably.

Hyper-sensitive to the fact that she and Harry both wore Dudley's incredibly oversized old hand-me-down clothes, she tried her best to tidy herself up as she approached the bar, barely peeking over the top of it, and Harry tried to flatten his unruly black hair. The toothless barman behind the counter spotted them and grinned.

"Good evening!" he declared, beaming. "What can I get for you? Butterbeers?"

"Actually," Lil said, after Harry glanced at her. "Mr Jones on the Knight Bus said to ask for Tom the barman. Is he here, please?" The man set down the pristine glass he had been wiping. He stared from Lil to Harry.

"Bless my soul," he gasped softly. "Can this be…? Harry and Lillian Potter." Lil stared at him; Harry glanced at her, perplexed. How had he known their names? The hubbub around them died down. Lil flushed as she realised everyone in the pub had turned to stare at them.

Then there was uproar. Everyone in the pub seemed to want to introduce themselves and shake their hands. They noted the Hogwarts letters in her and Harry's hands and grinned, "Welcome back!" and Dedalus Diggle got thoroughly overexcited when Harry remarked that he had once bowed to them at the shop.

"They remember me!" he squeaked. "D'you hear that?" Doris Crockford kept coming back for more, and several small children peered owlishly at them with sheer, unadulterated wonder. A no-nonsense-looking woman with a stuffed _vulture_ on the top of her pointed witches' hat swept up to them, offering her hand imperiously.

"Augusta Longbottom," she said with a ringing voice. "Very pleased to meet you. Neville! Come and say hello!" A small, round-faced boy approached shyly, blushing when Lil smiled bashfully at him. "My grandson, Neville. I see you have your Hogwarts letters, too. Neville will be in your class." Harry shook Neville's hand, saying, "Hi", in a rather overwhelmed tone. Neville glanced at Lil and gave her another shy smile, before Augusta Longbottom swept him away to finish their supper at a small table piled with parcels.

"Alrigh', make way," a deep voice said, and Lil's jaw dropped, and Harry jumped, as a giant of a man in a moleskin overcoat approached.

Twice the height of a normal man and three times as wide, he didn't need to warn those around him to step aside; they parted ways, but they smiled and waved, seeming to recognise him. The man's face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of black hair and a wild, tangled beard, but his eyes were visible, glinting like little black beetles, and even with all that hair, Lil could see that he was grinning.

"An' here yeh are!" he beamed. "Harry. Lil! Las' time I saw you, you was only babies. Blimey but you don' half look like yer dad, Harry! Yeh both got yer mum's eyes. You look a lot like yer mum, Lil. Beautiful, she was!" He gave them a very warm, kind smile, stooping down. "C'mon; Tom's got us a private parlour. Dumbledore said yeh'd be along."

And, to the dismay of the pub-patrons and despite their attempts to waylay them with conversation, Hagrid ushered Lil and Harry out of the main hall, to a door through which Lil was surprised he could even stoop to get through; but somehow, his shoulders didn't even brush the sides of the door-frame, and his head cleared the top: a little panelled corridor led to several small parlours, and in one of them a small spread had been set out on a round table with a pristine tablecloth.

"Excuse me," Harry said politely, glancing up at the giant. "Who are you?" The giant chuckled.

"True. I haven't introduced myself. Rubeus Hagrid," he said warmly. "Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. Dumbledore sent me to keep an eye on yeh." Lil inhaled covertly, the smell of the rich beef stew and dumplings making her stomach grumble loudly, and Mr Hagrid chuckled.

"Hungry, eh?" he rumbled genially, settling himself down into a large armchair that was too small for him; Lil perched on the other with Harry, having set her little stack of books bound in her old blanket on the table. "Remus said yeh could use some fattenin' up; said yeh were skinnier'n him even. I din' believe it; I had no idea you were both half-starved little Bowtruckles! Yer no bigger'n a fairy, Lil. Mind, yeh always were a little dot. Was afraid I'd squash yeh, night I took yeh away from yer parents' house."

Lil glanced up, staring.

"_Did _you?" she breathed. Then she frowned. That didn't sit squarely with what Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had told them, about their parents' car-accident. And what about the man with the motorcycle? "Their _house_?"

"Aye," the man sighed heavily, his eyes sparkling. "Got there just after it happened. Cottage half-destroyed, an' there you two were, mewling like newborn Kneazles, both with a great big gash. Never wondered how you two got those scars?" His warm beetle-black eyes sought the scar on Lil's neck, then the one hidden by Harry's fringe. Their house had been half-destroyed? In the crash, perhaps, she wondered.

"Aunt Petunia said our parents died in a car-crash," Harry said quietly.

"_A CAR CRASH_!" Lil jumped a foot into the air, Mr Hagrid had shouted so abruptly, and so angrily. "A car-crash kill Lily an' James Potter!" There they were again; their parents' names, cast about so casually, but it was only the second time Lil had ever heard them.

"Didn't… Didn't they die in a car-accident?" she asked softly, and Hagrid's expression turned suddenly troubled as he glanced at her with those beetle-black eyes.

"Didn't…didn't your aunt and uncle tell yeh?" he asked.

"Tell us what?" Harry asked.

"Is this about the green light? And the man with the flying motorcycle?" Lil asked, and Hagrid's eyes shot back to her, going a little pale. Harry was frowning thoughtfully.

"I knew it wasn't just a dream," he whispered to himself.

"Do you mean ter tell me," Hagrid said quietly, "that you two don't know _nothin_' abou'—abou' _anything_?"

"We know _some_ things!" Harry protested, flushing embarrassedly. "We know maths, and history, and—"

But Mr Hagrid just waved one enormous hand and said, "About _our_ world, I mean. _Your _world. _My _world. _Yer parents' world_." Lil glanced at Harry: she had told him that Remus had said something along those lines; until they had entered the Leaky Cauldron, Lil thought some part of Harry was still willing to believe this was all just an elaborate joke the Dursleys had set up. But he knew very well the Dursleys had absolutely no sense of humour whatsoever.

"Did yer auntie never tell yeh what was in the letter Dumbledore left for yeh?" Mr Hagrid asked, looking crestfallen and bright-eyed. Lil shook her head; she'd had no idea Aunt Petunia had been given any letter about them at all.

"Aunt Petunia never told us much about anything except to say not to ask questions," Lil said quietly, and Mr Hagrid frowned.

"But yeh must know about yer mum and dad," he said incredulously. "I mean, they're _famous_. You're _famous_."

"Our mum and dad weren't famous, were they?" Harry stared, wide-eyed.

"Yeh don' know…yeh don' know…" Hagrid ran his fingers through his tangled hair—suddenly Lil thought Harry looked well-groomed—fixing them with a bewildered stare.

"I never expected this," he said in a low, troubled voice. "I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, I don' know if I'm the right person ter tell yeh—but someone's gotta—yeh can't go off to Hogwarts not knowin'."

Mr Hagrid sighed heavily, disappearing for a moment, and when he returned, he doled out _huge_ plates of stew and dumplings, pouring something frothy and amber-coloured into two glasses for Lil and Harry; he sat down in his armchair, telling them to eat while he talked, and Tom the barman appeared, levitating a tankard the size of one of Aunt Petunia's buckets over to Hagrid, who took it gratefully, and took a big gulp before running a hand over his mouth thoughtfully.

"Well, it's best you know as much as I can tell yeh. I can't tell yeh everythin'; it's a great mystery, parts of it," he said, glancing from Lil to Harry. "First, and understand this, _not all wizards are good_. It begins with a person called—but it's incredible yeh don't know his name; everyone in our world knows…" He huffed a sigh, but seemed incapable of speaking further.

"Who?"

"Well, I don't like sayin' the name if I can get away with it. No one does."

"Why not?"

"Gulpin' Gargoyles, Harry! People are still scared!" Mr Hagrid exclaimed. "Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went… Bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…" Mr Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

"Could you write it down?" Harry prompted kindly.

"Nah, can't spell it," Mr Hagrid said, waving a hand. "Alright. _Voldemort_." He shuddered. "Don' make me say it again! This wizard, twenty years ago he started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too. Some were afraid; some just wanted a bit of his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, alright. Dark days, kids. You didn't know who ter trust, daren't get close ter any strange witches or wizards. Terrible things happened. He was takin' over… Course, some stood up to him—an' he killed 'em. Horribly. Some o' the best witches and wizards of the age—the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewett brothers; took five Death Eaters to take them down—they died like heroes… One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore was the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. He didn't dare try takin' the school, not just jus' then, anyway…"

Mr Hagrid sighed, his massive shoulders falling, and he took a gulp from his bucket-sized tankard.

"Yer parents were some o' the ones who fought him," he continued. "As good a witch and wizard as I ever knew. Great people, they were. Head boy an' girl when they were at Hogwarts. I suppose the mystery is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side before…probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the Dark Side. Maybe You-Know-Who thought he could persuade 'em, I dunno. Maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween, ten years ago; you two were just a year old. He came ter yer house one night an'—an'—" Mr Hagrid suddenly pulled out an enormous spotted handkerchief, and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.

"Sorry," he sniffled, sounding like he had a head-cold. "But it's that sad—knew yer mum an' dad, an' nicer people yeh couldn't find—anyway—You-Know-Who killed 'em. An' then—he tried to kill you two, as well. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose… Maybe he just like killin' by then. But he couldn't do it. An' that's the real mystery. All those people he killed, he couldn't kill two little babies. Nobody lived after he decided ter kill 'em. No one, but you two. You were only babies, and you lived." Lil mopped up the gravy from her second bowl of stew and dumplings with a bit of bread—the most fragrant and crustiest she had ever tasted—and licked her lips, reaching for her drink, just to have something to do besides linger on the painful thing occurring inside her head. The drink was wonderful; spreading warmth to her fingertips and toes, and she needed that; she had just gone cold, remembering again the blinding flash of green light, the high, cold, cruel laugh. Setting her glass down, she frowned.

Her parents had been murdered.

The man who had done it sounded sort of like a wizard-Hitler. A shiver went up and down her spine. She didn't like the thought of that at all. Hitler had been a Muggle: this Voldemort man was a _wizard_. He could—and had done—do unthinkable things. He had killed her parents in cold blood.

"Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore's orders," Hagrid said quietly, his eyes sad. "Took yeh to the Dursleys." His voice turned into a soft growl, and he looked angry as he swept those beetle-black eyes over her and Harry, who was onto his third helping of stew. He set his fork down to reach for his glass.

"What happened to Vol—sorry, I mean, You-Know-Who?" Harry asked.

"Good question," Hagrid sighed. "Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you two. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest mystery, see…he was getting' more an' more powerful—why'd he go? People who were on his side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die. I reckon he's still out there somewhere, but lost all his powers. Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' about you two finished him. Took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even, but he couldn't kill two little babies. There was somethin' goin' on that night he hadn't counted on—_I _dunno what it was, no one does—but somethin' about you two stumped him, alright." Mr Hagrid looked at Lil and Harry with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes. "That's why yer famous. That's why everybody in our world knows your names. You're the children who _lived_."

Lil set her head in her hand, frowning thoughtfully at Mr Hagrid. That explained a lot of things. The flash of green light, the high, cold laugh…and then…she could just remember it now, staring at Hagrid, surrounded by a fierce storm…an explosion. And then, pain. Though she had always hated her scar, Lil now ran her fingertip over the thin, smooth scar below her ear.

This man, this Voldemort, was still out there…_biding his time_. For what?

_Why_ had he killed her parents? What reason could be good enough to justify murder? And why, why after he had killed her mummy and daddy, had this Voldemort man then tried to kill her and Harry?

Mr Hagrid checked a small pocket-watch from one of his many pockets, and he jumped slightly. Glancing at them, he grinned. "Midnight!" Midnight. It was their _birthday_. Eleven years old.

"Got summat here for you," Mr Hagrid said, reaching into another pocket. "'Fraid I might've sat on it at some point." He produced a box, which did indeed look a little squashed, but he set it on the table, grinning, and Lil leaned in as Harry tentatively undid the string binding the box closed. Lifting the lid, Lil let out a soft gasp, her eyes widening.

A chocolate cake, complete with gooey icing, had green letters on it; she glanced at Harry, who read out, '_Happy Birthday Harry and Lillian_'. Lil stared at the cake, then stared up at Mr Hagrid.

"Thank you," Harry said softly, but earnestly. Her first _ever_ birthday-cake. Lil didn't know what to say. She gazed at the cake, her eyes burning. Finally, she managed to look up at Mr Hagrid, whose smile was warm and gentle.

"Thank you," she whispered, and Mr Hagrid's smile warmed even more.

Giggling softly, thoughts of Voldemort and their parents were pushed aside as they used their fingers to clean up the last of the chocolate icing from their plates, their wedges of birthday-cake finished off, drowsy from multiple helpings of a heavy stew and the fire.

"You wait. Yeh'll be right famous at Hogwarts… Righ', yer upstairs in room eleven," Mr Hagrid said. "Tom'll look after yeh till I get back in the mornin'. Yer not ter go wanderin' till I get here, mind."

"What do you mean, room eleven?" Lil asked.

"Private bedroom," Mr Hagrid said. "You an' Harry here are gonna stay 'ere tonight. Then we'll go into Diagon Alley an' get yer school-things." When Harry yawned widely, Mr Hagrid chuckled, picked them both up by the scruffs of their necks, the way Mrs Figg's cats carried their kittens, and he deposited them on a narrow polished staircase. He handed Lil her little bundle, and Harry tripped his way up the stairs. They found a door marked with a little _11_ and Harry peeked his head through the door before opening it up all the way. Handsome oak furniture stood highly-polished around the panelled bedroom, which featured a little fireplace crackling away merrily, and diamond-paned windows overlooking a winding cobblestone street filled with crooked Tudor-style buildings, unlike any Lil had seen surrounding the pub.

Two single four-poster beds, each intricately engraved, were set against the wall, the covers already turned down, and what looked like old-fashioned night-shirts were neatly folded on the pillows. Lil closed and locked the door behind her, then stared at the night-shirt. She had remembered that they had brought no clothing whatsoever. Not that she intended to go around wearing Dudley's second-hand underwear _ever_ again, but what would they wear tomorrow? And were these night-shirts for them?

She unfolded the one on her pillow, and saw that it was just the right size for her, soft as her blanket, a snowy white; Harry picked up his and raised his eyebrows. An old-fashioned night-shirt was better than Dudley's old pyjamas and Uncle Vernon's old mustard-yellow socks. Quietly, they changed—it was strange to dress in a wide-open room like this, not the cupboard—but as soon as they had both climbed into bed, Harry groaned in delight; Lil smiled, and wiggled her toes; someone had set a warming-pan between the sheets.

Lil had no memory of sleeping in a real, proper bed. This was the most comfortable she had ever slept in, and she didn't notice that Harry wasn't cuddled up with her because the feather duvet was so heavy and luxuriously warm.

This was the best birthday of her life.

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review! I've got it set out in my head how Fourth and Fifth Year will work out, especially how I'll configure a lot of the changes, and how Lil's identical scar will come into the story; it's important. So is the fact that there will be _NO character deaths_!

And _ElizabethAnneSoph_, Remus will definitely be a help! Especially when Lil's in third year.

I cannot for the life of me remember which book Snape makes them cook up a Shrinking Solution. I've decided that Lil sort of does embody her mother, especially when angered (which is usually when she sees people being bullied; e.g. by Malfoy, and especially Snape: in fact, I've got it all planned out that Lil will snap during a Potions lesson when Snape's being horrible to Neville, and she'll call him a "bullying toe-rag" as a nice little bit of symmetry to what Lily Evans said to Snape of James). Found it!


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